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To pinch or not to pinch, that is the question,Whether tis nobler in the the mind to sufferThe pokes and proddings of potential owners,Or to take claws against a sea of fingers, And by pinching, end them? To dig, to molt-Some more-and by a molt to say we endThe cramped exo, and the thousand chips That exo is heir to! 'Tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To dig, to molt-To molt- perchance to die: ay, there's the rub,For in that sleep of death that dreams of molt may comeWhen we have slipped off this armored skin,Must give pause. There's respectThat makes calamity of so long life:For who would bear the cramps and chips of time?Th' lack of salt-water, the plastic palms,The pangs of stale sand, the dinner's delay,The insolence of FMR, and the spurnsThat ill-fit, gawdy, unworthy shells,When he himself might his RV make With a bare backside?-Hermlet